Find Myself Watching You
by Ammeh
Summary: When an unexpected crush catches her off guard, Jane decides that the solution is hand-to-hand combat.  But things don't go quite as planned...or perhaps they do.
1. Thinking of Little Else

(A/N: So my boyfriend and I were visiting his family, they turned this show on, and I pretty much immediately started shipping these two. So I looked up fanfiction when I got back, and it wasn't quite what I expected. Where was the hatesex, the rivalmance, the screaming fights interspersed with frantic kissing? Don't get me wrong, there are some _fantastic_ emotional rollercoasters (I'm looking at you, Kyra4. You made me cry, and I loved every second of it.) but I found myself also craving something a little more...tongue-in-cheek. _You know, Ammeh, _I said to myself, _if you want a fic written exactly to your tastes, you're going to have to write it yourself._ So I am. Hopefully it's to some of your tastes, as well!

And since this fandom seems to like to keep things PG-13, this is also a challenge to myself to see if I can still write a 3000+ word fanfic without any smut in it. I haven't done that in years...which is incidentally why none of the stuff I've written in the past few years is on this site. And yet the formatter is as finicky as ever...)

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><p><em><strong>Chapter One: Thinking of Little Else<strong>_

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><p>Puberty was making Jane realize that her body was a sneaky, treacherous vessel, one which did not hold much stock in common sense.<p>

First there were the breasts. Such _unnecessary _things—first they were sore all the time, and then suddenly they no longer fit into her armor. She still was not nearly as well-endowed as Pepper in that department, thank goodness, but she had needed to have a curved cuirass specially commissioned from a very quizzical leatherworker in the town. A very _judgmental_ quizzical leatherworker, who kept asking why on earth she needed armor, being a woman and all.

Then came the _bleeding_. Two days a month of sore, achy hips that made training a chore, followed by several more days of having to run inside every few hours to change the cloth tucked inside her smallclothes.

And then one day Gunther Breech walked into the room, and she stopped breathing.

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It was not at all fair that her body should turn on her like this. As far as she could tell, the boys had gone through nothing more than a few weeks of unpredictable pitch changes before their voices smoothed out into something deeper than before. And here she was growing curves and wasting blood and fighting a strange fixation with Gunther Breech.

So perhaps she had been staring at him more than she used to. And perhaps he had begun to smell better than he had any right to after a long day of training. But recently it had begun to feel like her insides were tying themselves up into giddy little knots at his mere presence. She wanted to _touch _him. Which was silly, because she touched him…well…not that often, actually.

Why _did_ she not touch him more often? They spent hours a day within arm's reach, but their wooden swords were the only things that touched. Which, now that she thought about it, was ridiculous, really! What if she should find herself without a sword? She would be unable to defend herself or her liege, and that was completely unacceptable. They needed to work on unarmed combat. She would mention it tomorrow.

And the fact that such training would require quite a lot of bodily contact with Gunther would just be a fortunate—_unfortunate,_ of course she meant unfortunate—consequence.

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"Gunther, I have a thought," she began tentatively, during a lull in their sparring.

"Have you?" He raised a brow. "How unusual."

She opened her mouth to toss out an insult, before stopping herself short. This was for the good of the kingdom, after all. "I _thought_," she said, "that we ought to train in—hand-to-hand combat. How to defeat an opponent without the use of a weapon."

He scoffed. "You can learn that in a tavern. Just insult a drunkard's mother and you shall have all the unarmed combat you could want." He paused. "Unless you consider flagons and stools to be weapons, that is."

His smirk was absolutely _infuriating_, in a way that made her rather breathless. With rage. Breathless with rage. Definitely.

"I was not talking about _brawling_," she protested, "I meant something more along the lines of…wrestling your opponent to the ground and disabling them."

He gaped at her for a moment, cheeks flushed, before shaking himself out of a reverie. "Ah. Well, that sounds like…an excellent idea, Jane. We should do that. Soon."


	2. Reach and Flexibility

(A/N: As some of you may have noticed by this chapter, yes, the titles are themed. Firstly, to call sexy/romantic scenes to mind if you recognize them, and secondly, because I hate coming up with titles. If you don't recognize some/any of them, I'll be doing a full reveal at the end.)

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><p><em><strong>Chapter Two: Reach and Flexibility<strong>_

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><p>She was going to have bruises <em>everywhere<em>.

When sparring, the two of them were evenly matched. His reach was a bit longer, she was a bit quicker. But he was taller and heavier than she was, and grappling let him use his larger body size against her much more directly. Her flexibility let her twist out of his hold more often than not, but she had only managed to throw him to the ground twice, and he had thrown her…more times than she cared to admit. And her skin was going to show it in the morning.

She caught him off balance, grinning as he began to fall—then gasping as he threw an arm around her waist, dragging her down with him. They hit the ground with a thud, and he rolled so that he was on top of her, bringing his hand to her throat.

"I could kill you now with my belt dagger," he said smugly.

"You _have_ no belt dagger. You are supposed to be completely unarmed," she grumbled.

"I _always_ have my belt dagger," he countered.

"So you wear it to bed?" she asked, raising her brows.

"I keep it under my pillow. Close enough."

"Maybe someone stole it in the night," she said. "Or maybe you had to lay down your weapons for a peace negotiation."

"I would have awoken…and why would I be fighting at a peace negotiation, fool?"

"Maybe they were a master thief, and maybe the negotiation was a trap," she insisted. "As knights of the realm, we have to be prepared for all circumstances."

"Fine," he said, standing and offering her a hand. "We shall do it your way."

She should have known better than to let him help her up. As she stood, he used his control over her weight to twirl her about, pulling her back against his front. He threaded one hand into her hair, fingers against her scalp, and cupped her jaw with the other.

"Now I could break your neck."

God, but she hated him. And it should _not_ have been so disappointing for him to let her go. But it was.

"Again," she said, turning to face him.

"You do need to be able to stand tomorrow, you know," he said wryly.

"_I_ am not the sort of delicate flower that misses training because of a few bruises," she shot back. "I cannot speak for you, of course."

"Unless you improve, I will not _have_ any," he jeered.

"You mule-arsed _clotpole_!" she hissed, launching herself at him.

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"You two forgot the swords," Dragon called from the battlements, chuckling. "Really, you would think by now you would remember them."

"We are practicing fighting without them!" she called up to him.

He snorted. "You shortlives have no claws except the ones Hammer-Boy makes you. You have nothing else to fight with!"

"We can fight without them and we will!" she declared. "We can…throw people. That _is_ fighting."

"So long as they hit their heads on the way," Gunther added.

Dragon cocked one green, scaly eyeridge. "Show me then, Jane. Throw Gunther."

"I…right." She frowned.

Gunther smirked, spreading his arms in invitation. "Yes, Jane, show him."

She hurled herself forward, trying to catch him off guard, but he was just _standing there_, feet set apart for stability, and she could not throw him off balance with her weight alone. She would have to…have to…

With a start, she realized that she was pressed against his chest, her lips an inch from his neck. His rather delectable-smelling neck, not in an edible way but in a way that made her want to bury her face in it and just _inhale_ and—this was Gunther. Gunther _Breech_.

She let go as if he were a hot coal and scrambled backwards, face flaming. He looked at her quizzically for a moment before Dragon burst into hysterical laughter above them.

"_Fighting_. I _see_. Looks very effective, Jane! Now really, go get your swords, and I promise not to tell anyone you forgot them…actually I will, that is too hilarious not to share! _Fighting!_ And I suppose that makes me an eggplant!" He flew off, still chuckling.

Jane whirled on Gunther, seething. "I am _not_ giving up on this."

He seemed quite all right with that.


	3. Whisk You Away

(A/N: Thank you for the reviews, everyone! And thank you for the tip, Kyra4-I never would have thought of that, but it sounds much more _right_ without the contractions. I've gone back and fixed the previous chapters as well.)

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><p><strong><em>Chapter Three: Whisk You Away<br>_**

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><p>Perhaps, however, she would put the plan to the side for a while.<p>

Her skin was mottled with patches of purple and blue and all sorts of indescribable ugly shades, and it hurt to sit. And stand. And lie. And do…well…just about anything, really. Riding Dragon brought out even more aches, and though she insisted to him that she was perfectly fine, he forcibly dropped her back off at the castle after she failed to stifle the third pained groan. After making him promise to tell her exactly how it went, she let him fly the morning patrol on his own and limped down to the kitchens for breakfast.

Gunther was nowhere to be seen, which was odd—he practically lived at the castle these days. It was so odd, in fact, that she looked for him very, very thoroughly. Not that she _wanted_ to see him, or anything, but squires should look after each other.

That, and she needed someone to spar with.

Gunther absent, however, she practiced archery for several hours before succumbing to her various aches and getting some bruise balm from Pepper. She spent the afternoon in bed reading, smelling like an herb garden, and was feeling somewhat better by dinner. Pepper cooed over her, asking after her injuries and was it not _wonderful_ that Rake had been growing _comfrey _and St._ John's _wort so she did not need to get her poultices from the apothecary in town? Jane nodded distractedly, staring into her stew as though it held the answers to the world. She might _have_ to defeat a man larger than her without a weapon someday, someday when it was not just training. There must be a way for her to win; she just needed to figure it out.

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Gunther was missing the next day, as well. Sir Ivon said that he was helping his father, but had no idea when he would be back. (Had he not _asked?_ When would they know to start looking for him? She had no doubt that the merchant would sell his own son if he thought it would make him a profit in the long run—err, not that she was worried, or anything.)

By the fourth day with no sign of him, she asked Sir Ivon directly if he was quite sure that Gunther was all right, and that he had not been attacked by bandits or sold into slavery by his maggot of a father. He chuckled and patted her head and told her he was sure Gunther was fine, lass, and did Sir Theodore not have anything for her to do, because he could certainly use some help with his latest project, if so. After deciding that no, she wanted nothing to do with the Whirlyspear, she gave him some feeble excuse and spent the rest of the day patrolling with Dragon, asking him to keep a particular eye out for crumpled Gunther-shaped things along the road.

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Her bruises were yellow and fading by the time he did return, one evening during dinner, acting as if he had just been off to the privy rather than missing for a week.

"Gunther?" Jester asked. "You have not been here in days!"

"Seven of them," Jane said accusingly.

Jester frowned, apparently having been less concerned than she about Gunther's strange absence. "Was it that long? Time flies when one is having fun, I suppose!"

Gunther rolled his eyes. "So sorry to break up the party, then."

"Gunther, where _were_ you?" Jane prodded. "It is not like you to miss training for so long."

"I was working, if you must know."

"Working? Did...did you decide that you wish to take over your father's business after all?" she asked with a faint sense of dread.

"No, I was…procuring something."

"And it took you an entire week?" she snapped. "What, did you get lost on the way back to the castle? You could have told someone how long you were going to be gone!"

"I had no way to _know _how long it would be!" he snarled. "And I was trying to do you a _favor_, you could at least act grateful!" He broke off, staring awkwardly at his plate. "So, um…meet me in the courtyard after dinner."

He got up and left before she could ask what he meant, leaving her with half a scolding still on her tongue, and some very curious friends.

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><p>(Random References: Comfrey and St. John's Wort were both used to treat bruises, burns, and other minor injuries during the Middle Ages.)<p> 


	4. A Dastardly Clever Plan

(A/N: I was going to wait to post this chapter until I finished chapter 5, but I got my first real job today at a company that seems like a made-up land of awesome, and I am too excited to keep it to myself!)

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><p><strong><em>Chapter Four: A Dastardly Clever Plan<em>**

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><p>He was leaning against the wall when she came out, fidgeting with the ties to a cloth-wrapped bundle in his hands.<p>

"Dawdling as always, I see," he said as he looked up.

"So sorry that I did not abandon my meal to attend to you immediately." She rolled her eyes. "I had no idea that this was such an _important_ meeting." In truth, she had spent the time convincing Pepper and Jester that she was sure it was squire business, no, not a moonlit walk, and no, she really did not think he was going to clobber her over the head and dump her in a ditch and _fine_, she would take her sword.

"Uh…right." He cleared his throat. "This…I thought you could use this. Maybe it will make you a little bit less pathetic."

"How…kind of you," she said bemusedly, reaching for the package as he held it out.

"You cannot keep it!" he added quickly before she took it. "It is a _loan_. If it is dirty or torn or anything when you give it back, then you shall have to pay for it. And—and I am sure you cannot afford it. So you had best not lose it!" he said in a rush.

She frowned quizzically, unwrapping the cloth to reveal a strange parchment scroll, the likes of which she had never seen. "Well, I shall be careful with…whatever this is."

"A scroll from the Far East," he said. "They have…techniques for unarmed fighting, ones that focus on using your opponent's strength against him." He rubbed the back of his neck awkwardly. "My father bought it third-hand off a trade caravan some years ago, but he has never managed to resell it. I thought you might find it useful. Uh…being such a…flirt-gilled little dove—kitten—_pigeon_ and all."

She raised an eyebrow. "Kitten?"

"I _said_ pigeon."

"I see." She carefully opened the scroll, revealing a great many strange markings that she could not make any sense of in the dim light. "Um…Gunther? I have no way to read this."

"Of course not, but there are pictures." He pointed to some of the larger markings, which did look vaguely people-shaped. "They _are_ small, and not very detailed, so we will probably need to—ah—_experiment_ to get them right."

She blushed. "I—thank you, Gunther. This was…very thoughtful."

He coughed, looking away. "Yes. Well. Like I said, it _is_ a loan, so you had best be careful with it. No flying about with it or leaving it on the ground or anything like that."

She nodded. "So…erm…why were you gone for so long?"

He scoffed. "I had to work to pay for it, what do you think?" He shrugged. "All for the best. Father was…cross that I do not come help as much as I used to. This will please him a little."

"Pay for it? But you said it was a loan, and that I could not possibly afford it. I can afford a week's work, you know!" she exclaimed.

"You still have to _pay_ for loans, Jane," he said condescendingly.

"Not that I have ever heard of. But I suppose it _is_ your father. He would rob a miser of his last coin."

There was a time when he would have argued the last bit, but they both knew that it was true. "You cannot tell me you have never heard of usury? And here I thought you were decently educated."

"Not that _family_ would charge you, no. Or was it because the scroll is for me?"

He let out a short, mocking laugh. "You think he would have let me borrow it if he knew that I intended to give it to you? No, as far as he knows this is for my own personal use."

"And _how_ exactly did he expect you to _use_ it without a partner?" she asked, hand on her hip.

He smiled sardonically. "He must just think me a clever lad."

She pondered for a moment. "I suppose that _is_ one of the few good things that can be said about you."

If she did not know better, she would have sworn he blushed.

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><p>(Random References: The scroll in question is something along the lines of the <em>shijuuhatte, <em>the 48 positions of sumo...except for some form of grappling rather than for sumo, and probably from China instead of Japan. The original 48 positions inspired a kind of Japanese Kama Sutra of the same name several hundred years later, so don't look it up unless you're prepared to deal with that as well. My point is, the scroll looks vaguely like this. (Remove spaces, of course) img. photo bucket . com/albums/ v221/Ammeh /shijuuhatte .jpg)


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